Deviations from the Pattern
by melancolie
Summary: Craig had a terrible morning; he was out of shampoo, had no clean socks, and spilled his breakfast all over the floor. So, he decides to go to Harbuck's and get some breakfast. He receives quite the shock when he notices who's working.
1. Chapter 1

_**BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEE—!**_

Craig smacked his alarm clock forcefully, letting himself snooze for another five minutes. His alarm was set for 6:55 every morning, but he never got up until at least seven. He always felt better giving himself a few extra minutes to enjoy his bed. He wasn't tired; he was never tired when he woke up, because he always got the perfect amount of sleep. He just liked the brief few minutes to soak in the relaxation before he sacrificed himself to the insanity outside.

So, for five minutes, he rested in bed, snuggling his face into his pillow, avoiding the patch of drool as if it were the plague. He ran through his schedule in his head. He had English at nine, and World Civilizations at eleven. Then he would meet up with Clyde, and they would go get lunch before going to their only shared class, Biology II, at two-thirty. He would be out by three-forty-five, and he would come home and watch Red Racer, then he had work at five. He got out at nine, then he'd come home again and edit his English essay, read his World Civ textbook and take some notes, and go over his Biology flashcards. He took a deep breath. All in all, he had an easy day ahead of him. In fact, he felt so relaxed that he hit snooze one more time, something he very rarely did. He took another deep breath and for the next five minutes, thought of nothing, and instead, just felt. He felt his heart beating, and he felt the softness of his sheets, and the comfort of his mattress, and the fluffiness of his pillows. He heard the sound of Spot rustling in her cage. He smelled hay and Tide laundry soap. For five minutes, he just was.

When he finally got himself out of bed, he shuffled to his kitchen slowly. It was spring again in South Park; the snow had partially melted and he could see patches of grass out his window. He wondered how long it would take for all the snow to melt. He hoped it was a warm spring. He opened the fridge and peered inside. Occupying two shelves were his foods; milk, eggs, unopened loaves of bread and bagels, yoghurt, leftovers. On the bottom shelf, however, was an array of fresh fruits and vegetables, pieces of which he fed Spot daily. He debated for a while what to give her before coming up with an orange and a couple of green beans. He peeled the orange methodically, circling it so that the peel was in one long, circular piece. He pulled the pieces apart and took one, along with the green beans, into his room.

Spot was not a timid guinea pig; in fact, as soon as she heard him approach, she began wheeking loudly and inconsiderately, begging for her meal. Craig smiled. If he never had kids, he could get on with his life, but he wouldn't be able to live without a guinea pig. Ever since he was six years old and saw his first guinea pig in the pet shop, he had been attached to them. Not even learning about his prophetic attachment to them (heaven forbid he remember it) could remove his love from him. He didn't know what it was about them; he only knew that he loved them immensely. After Stripe died when he was twelve, he was nearly catatonic for a week. Then his mom bought him another guinea pig, which he named Speck. She lived for about three and a half years before dying prematurely of what he was told was liver cancer. He was sixteen when he got Spot, and he'd had her for almost four years now.

He stroked her back mindlessly while she munched on the orange slice. She was a good guinea pig. She was quiet at night while he slept, and had somehow litter trained herself.

"Good morning, Spot," he said. She purred in response. "How did you sleep?" She just continued to purr, and he started to lightly scratch her back. "Good morning, Spot!" He said, slightly louder and at a higher pitch. She moved away from the orange slice and started to nibble on one of the green beans, purring all the while. "Do you like your food, Spot? Hm?"

Eventually, she turned away from the food and toward his hand. She licked his palm, and he scooped her up carefully, resting her against his chest. Unlike his previous two guinea pigs, Spot enjoyed being held. At first, she had been wary of being lifted, and put up a bit of struggle until she had come to rest against his chest. Eventually, she grew to trust Craig, and usually requested being held. As he petted her carefully, she burrowed her nose in the corner of his hand and his chest, purring. Craig spoke quietly to her, telling her about his schedule for the day.

"But I'll be home at four, like always, and I'll give you some lunch then, okay?" He muttered softly. Then he gave her a light kiss on the top of her head, and set her back down in her cage. She jumped carefully from his hand, and returned to her breakfast. Craig removed her food dish and filled it with fresh pellets. He added more hay to her hay bin, and changed her water before deciding that she should be content for the day. He scratched her back gently one more time before heading into the shower.

The first hint Craig had that today would be out of the ordinary was that he was out of shampoo. Craig never ran out of anything. Having developed an attention to order that bordered on anal retentive, he always made sure to take inventory of everything in his apartment and compile a list every time he went shopping. Ever since he got his own place (about a month after he turned eighteen; he had been desperate to move out of his parents' house), he made sure to keep his apartment well-stocked with all his necessities. He had never run out of anything since he moved in.

Except for today, apparently. He traced his memory back to last Saturday, trying to figure out where he went wrong, but nothing occurred to him. Unsure of how to proceed, he shook the shampoo bottle several more times to reassure himself that it was as empty as it could get, then decided to forgo washing his hair, cursing himself for not realizing he was low on shampoo earlier, and factoring in when he would stop at the grocery store.

His second hint came when he returned to his room and found, after he had nearly finished dressing, that he had one clean sock left, its match nowhere to be found. Now slightly irritated by his lack of forethought (all of his planning and anal retentive attention to detail couldn't make him enjoy doing laundry, and so it was usually left until last minute), he grabbed his hamper and threw half of it in the washer. He poured in the soap, turned the washer on, and dug further into the hamper to grab a dirty sock. Displeased by this turn of events, he returned the hamper to his room and walked back to the kitchen, where he received hint number three after finishing off the orange he'd peeled earlier.

He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. He grabbed a bowl and a box of cereal, barely looking at the label, and pouring it out. He grabbed a spoon, picked up the bowl, headed for the table, and tripped over what had to have been his own foot, spilling the entire bowl on the ground.

He stared at it for a few seconds. He couldn't tell how he felt, exactly; angry, amused, or resigned. He decided on all three, and mumbled sarcastically to himself while he cleaned it up, opting instead to stop at a coffee shop on his way to school and get a bagel.

He started the engine, fearing for an instant that it wouldn't start. He was thankfully proven wrong, and he pulled out of the apartment complex's parking lot with no hassle. Though he wasn't one for superstition, he was certain that he couldn't have had so much bad happen to him today without it meaning something, and so he drove particularly slowly until he reached the Harbuck's coffee shop in town. Craig felt that they were ridiculously overpriced (and he wasn't exactly made of money, either), and so he tried to avoid the place whenever possible. However, he was justified stopping there, seeing as to how his morning had gone so poorly.

He entered the coffee shop to find the place in a near-riot. He didn't know South Park even had that many people; the line was nearly to the door, and every table was full. There were elderly people chatting over tea and plain doughnuts; middle-aged men and women reading the newspaper, sipping coffee from porcelain mugs; twenty-somethings with their Apple computers and headphones in, wearing pastel-colored V-neck shirts and corduroys; in the line, he could even see a few teenage girls wearing neon colored clothes and glasses that were too big for their faces. Craig raised an eyebrow at them, praying to whoever heard that that wasn't the new fashion trend.

Though the line was long, it moved quickly. Craig couldn't see the counter from where he was standing, but he figured that there had to have been a good number of people working for the line to move so fast. He was rightfully shocked when he got near enough to look, and could see only one person behind the counter. He was even more shocked when he realized who it was.

Tweek Tweak was the last person he expected to see working at Harbuck's, although he could have slapped himself in the face for not remembering sooner. They had been good friends in elementary school and in the first year and a half of middle school. But then Tweek stopped coming to school, opting for a home tutor instead, and he and Tweek fell out of touch, so much so that Craig hadn't even seen the guy since he was thirteen. However, his father had long since been the manager of Harbuck's before that; it had to have been more than ten years now. Shocked at his faulty memory, he waited in the line, growing ever more impatient as he took a step forward.

Tweek had grown well, Craig noticed, as he took another customer's order. He had always been twiggy, but as a kid, he'd been short, so he looked sort of unhealthy. However, since they had last seen each other, Tweek had gotten a lot taller, and filled out a bit. He still looked like a twig, but instead of looking like he needed a good meal, now he just looked naturally thin. He had apparently stopped pulling his hair out, too, because he didn't have any bald patches. He hadn't grown it much longer, but by being fuller, it stuck up more, and at odder angles; it looked like someone had just ruffled it.

Yet, despite all of these strange changes, the most shocking aspect of Tweek's appearance was how comfortable he looked. As a child, Tweek seemed constantly on the verge of tears. He always shook out of panic and he stuttered and pulled his hair and bit his nails. He had constantly shouted out of paranoia and he couldn't focus for the life of him. The Tweek he was looking at now, however, was a changed Tweek. He was smiling, for starters, and looking people in the eye; something he couldn't do as a child. He was standing up straight and tall, and he wasn't twitching or shouting or biting his nails. Craig could only wonder what had changed so much since they were kids that Tweek was so… happy.

And focused, too; Craig watched him hand the customer his change, crack his knuckles, and go to work. It was incredible; he was like a living machine, a human assembly line. He grabbed a cup with one hand, and a plastic sheet with another. He used the plastic sheet to grab a bagel, which he placed next to the toaster, and took the cup to a nearby beverage dispenser. He pressed a button on the dispenser, which poured out a steaming liquid of some sort. While it was pouring, he put on a pair of gloves, neatly cut the bagel in half, popped it in the toaster, and returned to the beverage dispenser, which had just finished pouring a drink. He grabbed a carton of milk, poured it in a nearby measuring cup, and started rotating the cup to stir the insides. He walked to a sugar dispenser and, still rotating the cup, dispensed three sugars, which fell into the milk and got mixed in it. Walking to a third machine, he hit a button, which poured out a few drops of an unnamed liquid, though through the coffee and baked goods, Craig thought he smelled vanilla. He then poured the mixture into the coffee, rotating the coffee cup. He grabbed a stir stick and gave it a last quick stir, then, using his forefinger and thumb, pinched a bit of what Craig assumed was some sort of ground bean, and sprinkled it on the top. He lidded the cup and set it on the counter. He returned to the toaster, which had only just popped. Grabbing the bagel with one hand and a knife with the other, he ran the knife through the butter and pulled one half of the bagel closer. With a quick flick of his wrist, he buttered both sides of the bagel, and, once done, ran the edges of the knife over each side. He closed the bagel, cut it in half once more, wrapped it in a sheet of paper, and put it on the counter.

Craig was awestruck. The entire process hadn't taken an entire minute; Craig couldn't have done all that in five. As Tweek bid the customer farewell and moved on to the next person in line, Craig wondered if that was what made Tweek so calm.

He was so caught up in his thoughts about Tweek that he had barely given any thought to his order, so when the guy in front of him approached the register, he had to scramble through the menu to decide what he wanted. Tweek quickly mowed through the man's order, and suddenly, it was Craig's turn.

"Welcome to Harbuck's, what can I get you?" Tweek asked politely, gripping both sides of the register. Then his eyes squinted, and he gave an inquisitive half-smile. "Craig?"

"Hey, Tweek," Craig replied, giving a small smile. "What's up?"

"Not much, man. How are you doing? It's been forever!"

"I know," Craig agreed, nodding his head with wide eyes. "Since at least eighth grade."

"Yeah, really." Tweek glanced at the people standing next to Craig in line, some of whom looked irritated and impatient. "Sorry to rush you, but can I get your order? You should sit down. My dad's here, so I can take a fifteen minute break after I get this line sorted out, and we can catch up."

"Alright," Craig nodded, and ordered a medium black tea and an onion bagel with cream cheese. He watched, captivated, while Tweek made his order. Craig timed him in his head; it took Tweek thirty-six seconds to finish his entire order. He took his bagel and tea, and sat down at what was likely the only empty table left in the entire shop.

He stared out the window while he ate, thoughts aimless, not noticing Tweek approach until he sat down in front of him. Craig jumped a little, then met Tweek's smile with his own.

"So. How have you been?" Tweek asked, sipping from a lidded to-go cup.

"Not bad," Craig replied. "Been going to school and work. That's pretty much it. What about you?"

Tweek gestured around him, almost hitting a lady with his cup. "Just this place. I don't really have the, er… composure. To do anything else." He took another sip, and Craig noticed that his hand started shaking a little.

He nodded. "I understand. How are doing with that, by the way? You seemed really calm before, while you were working."

Tweek chuckled, and it sounded a little bit forced. "It's a theory I've been working on; the more focused I get on whatever task is at hand, the less I stress, and the less I stress, the less—ngh—panicky I get." He took another sip from the cup. "My, uh… my psychiatrist has been trying to get me to focus on something other than my job, but it doesn't usually w-work. I like this place. I like making c-coffee. I like how busy it gets; it's really easy for me to—nrgh—" His whole body twitched for a second, and Craig started to get worried, but Tweek took a deep breath and continued, "For me to focus here. Plus, my dad's the boss, so I don't have as much to w-worry about. There's less pressure."

Craig nodded. "That's cool, that you're able to focus on your job so much. I almost fall asleep at my job, it's so boring."

"What do you d-do?" Tweek asked. Craig could now see him shivering, as if he were cold. Craig eyed the drink in his hands, suddenly curious as to what he was drinking.

"I file paperwork at the vet clinic. And trust me, it's a lot less interesting than it sounds. I'm the one who gets to call everybody whose bills haven't been paid and nag them to make a payment. I hate it, but a job is a job."

Tweek nodded, and his movements were jerky. "So, you said you were going to school, too? Where? What are you studying?"

Craig leaned back in his chair. He didn't realize he'd been sitting forward stiffly and uncomfortably until he leaned back. "Park Country Community, for Vet Tech. After I graduate, I want to apply to a veterinary school and… become a vet. I figured vet tech was probably a good place to start."

"That's really—neh!—cool. Where were you th-thinking of going?"

Craig shrugged, mid-sip. "I dunno. Somewhere far away from here, I know that."

Tweek chuckled, sounding slightly hysterical. "Sick of South Park?"

Craig looked at him blankly. "To death."

Tweek's chuckle died down to a look of bemusement. He took another sip of his drink, and said, "I hear that. I h-hate it, too. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like working for m-my dad, and I like how comfortable I am here, but—ergh—it's still shitty old South P-Park."

Struck with curiosity, Craig asked, "What would you do? If you could get away from here."

Tweek thought for a second. "I don't know. I don't think about it much; I can't leave, that would be way too much p-pressure." He took a long drag from his cup, shaking all the while.

Craig suddenly felt a wave of pity for his old friend. He had forgotten just how _off_ Tweek was. This was a boy who couldn't even dress himself in the morning because he was so twitchy. He was right; leaving South Park would be impossible for him.

"H-hey," Craig was pulled from his thoughts by Tweek's sudden shout. "I have to get back to w-work in a minute," Tweek stammered, moving to stand up.

Craig nodded, standing as well. "Alright." Then he smiled. "It was good catching up, Tweek. Hey, you should give me your number. We should hang out sometime." Tweek grinned, and pulled out his phone. They exchanged their phones, entered their numbers, and handed them back. "When are you free this week?"

Tweek shrugged. "I can get off w-whenever I want. But, it usually helps if it's later in the evening, when it's less busy here. We only have four employees; Dad has me alone in the mornings because it's cheaper for him and he knows I can handle it." Craig noticed that, at the thought of returning to work, Tweek already stopped shaking, and stuttered less. "It would be better to let me know when you're free so I can tell Dad to call someone in."

Craig nodded. "I'm free tomorrow night after four, and Saturday after one."

Tweek thought a minute. "How about S-Saturday? Gives Dad more time to get someone else."

Craig nodded again. "Sounds good. I'll see you Saturday, then."

Tweek smiled. "Alright. See you then." Then he turned and walked back to the counter, relieving his father. Craig watched for a minute, itching to watch Tweek work his magic again, but he suddenly took notice of the clock behind the counter and realized he was going to be late for class. He ran out the door, keys in hand, unaware of his smile and his sudden excitement for Saturday afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Chapter Two, yo. It took me about a day to write, and about EIGHTEEN YEARS TO EDIT. No matter what I did I couldn't get it to sound right. So, I hope this is acceptable as an excuse in regards to why it's been so long since I've updated.

Also, I have no idea where this story is going to go yet. All I know is that I love Creek so don't even worry because I couldn't possibly put them in a sad ending together because I love Creek so much omg.

And, without any further ado, chapter two. :D

* * *

Despite looking forward to his new plans, Craig's day did not improve since he left Harbucks. He raced all the way to campus, praying that the parking lots weren't full, only to be let down when he got there and remembered it was an open house day for prospective applicants. He parked in a lot on the opposite side of campus with one minute to spare until his class started, and so the instant he found a parking space, he put the car in park, shut it off, grabbed his bag, jumped out of the car, and locked it. He pushed the door to close it, then noticed that his keys were still in the ignition, and quickly thrust his hand in the path of the closing door.

"OW! FUCK!" Craig shouted, pain shooting up from his fingers. He opened the door and looked at his hand. He couldn't see anything wrong, but that didn't matter; he didn't need evidence to know that he had to have broken at least two of his fingers. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed his keys and shut the door, then took off running toward his classroom, deciding he would tend to his damaged fingers when he had more time. It would have taken him about two minutes to get to his class, at the speed he was going. As it were, he was about halfway there before he tripped over nothing and fell flat on his face.

He let out a pained hiss, trying to keep from cursing again. Ignoring the chuckles of the witnesses and the concerned "are you okay"s, he sat up and touched his nose. He felt blood trickling toward his mouth and clamped it shut, and as he fingered his nose gently, he inhaled sharply through his teeth. He had pressed the bridge and the pain nearly blinded him.

"Hey, son, let's go, you need to go to the medical office," someone said, grabbing his arm and trying to help him stand. "Come on, up'n at 'em." Craig jumped, startled, and looked at his mystery aid in confusion. He wasn't sure if he'd ever met this man before. He was an older man, probably someone's parent. Craig looked at him through wide eyes for a moment before he could process what he had said.

"You don't have to help me there, I'm alright," he finally said, pushing himself slowly to his feet, teetering back and forth a little from dizziness. He looked at the man more closely; he was taller than Craig (quite a feat given that Craig was six feet four), though stocky. A beer belly that had to have taken him a few years protruded from behind his button-up shirt and tie. A woman stood close to him; she didn't seem much younger than he was, and she was rather tall herself, maybe three inches shorter than Craig. Craig assumed it was his wife, though the thought barely registered, and he wasn't even sure how it occurred to him.

"Here, son, I've got some tissues. You can't pinch the bridge of your nose, but at least you can catch some of the blood before it gets on your clothes," she advised, handing him a pocket-sized pack of tissues. Craig took the pack gratefully and held one carefully to his nose.

"Thank you so much," Craig said thickly, feeling like there was more he ought to say but unable to remember any of it. He felt a little disoriented and began to wonder if he hit his head harder than he thought. He picked up his bag and threw it over his shoulder.

"No problem, son. Are you sure you don't need some help to the office? You seem a bit dizzy," the man pointed out, concern evident in his voice.

Craig shook his head, and hoped he didn't teeter around as he did so. He felt like he did; he felt like the world was spinning around him, and he could barely focus on the man's eyes because they were teetering too. "No, that's okay, I know where it is."

"Alright, son. Take care. And no more running in the halls," the man joked, smiling.

"You too," Craig replied. He gave them a small smile, then walked the other way, cursing his bad luck. He thought for a moment about his English class, then decided he would stop by the teacher's office later to explain what happened. He caught a glimpse of himself in a window as he passed it and saw that his eyes were starting to bruise. He groaned—but at least this way he knew his teacher would believe him.

As he entered the medical office, he felt a sudden wave of dizziness, stronger than he had felt thus far, and he swayed on the spot before taking a seat in the waiting room. There was nobody at the reception desk, so he sat and waited. He realized that the tissue he was using was now saturated with blood, so he set it on his lap and grabbed another one. Just as he pressed it to his nose, the receptionist came in, looked at him, and gasped.

"Oh my lord! What happened, son?" she asked, quickly putting on a pair of latex gloves and running to him, taking the tissue from his hand and wiping up blood he'd missed. He flinched back a little bit when she touched the bridge of his nose, and she quickly retracted her hand. She was more careful after that not to touch his nose.

"I was running to my class because I was going to be late, and I tripped and fell on my face," Craig replied, feeling a little woozy. "I feel sick," he admitted slowly, before grabbing the trash can next to him and vomiting heavily into it. Craig was repulsed and fascinated to see blood in it, then realized that it must have been running down his throat after his fall, though, as with his previous realizations, he was unsure how he came to know it, just suddenly aware that it was true.

"Oh, dear," the nurse muttered, leaning away from him, avoiding looking into the bucket. "Doctor!"

A few seconds later, a younger lady in a white lab coat came out to the waiting room. She looked at Craig and her eyes went wide. As she walked over, she pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, put them on, and asked, "What happened here?"

The receptionist told her the story, and Craig leaned his head onto the rim of the garbage can, to which he was still clinging. He didn't feel strong enough to hold his head up any more, and besides, the room was spinning, and it made his head hurt even worse. He wanted to go home and lay down; his head and nose were throbbing now, the pain in his hand completely forgotten. The doctor took the garbage can from him, set it on the floor, lifted Craig's head, and said, "Do you feel alright, son?"

"Dizzy," Craig said, his eyes half-lidded. "Tired."

"Mm," the doctor hummed, looking at Craig's nose, turning his face. She used one hand to continue to support his face, and with the other, started to gently press his nose. Craig winced and let out another sharp hiss when she pressed the bridge of it. She paused, then went a bit higher on his nose, and continued to apply small amounts of pressure up until she pressed gently in between his eyebrows. When nothing happened, she returned to the spot where she had caused Craig pain, and gently touched it. "It's swelling. Jen, will you get an ice pack?" She asked the receptionist.

"Sure," she replied, running to the freezer.

The doctor returned her attention to Craig's face. "Alright, son, your nose is definitely broken. And, unfortunately, I'm going to have to set it."

"What does that mean?" Craig asked, uncertain if that was the correct question to ask. Was he supposed to know what that meant? He was having a hard time remaining coherent, and focusing on trivial things like words didn't seem that important.

"It means that when your nose broke, part of the bone shifted. In order to keep your nose from healing crooked, and to keep from having any further complications, I have to shift the bone back into place," she explained. When Jen the receptionist came back with the ice pack, the doctor pressed it gently to Craig's nose. "Thank you, Jen. If I could ask another favor, will you get me some extra strength ibuprofen from the cabinet, and a glass of water?" She turned to Craig, and asked, "Do you have any allergies?" Craig shook his head, so Jen nodded once more, and left to do it.

The doctor, still supporting Craig's face and pressing gently with the ice pack, said, "Now, the fall might have given you a minor concussion, so I'm going to ask you a few questions, and try to determine what's going on."

Craig nodded, and Jen came back with the ibuprofen and water. "Here, take these," the doctor ordered, handing them to Craig. Craig did his best to keep his head up after she'd let go, but it dropped a little. He took the medicine with some difficulty (he also managed to spill quite a bit of the water on the floor), and the doctor reapplied the ice pack. "What's your name, son?"

"Craig Tucker."

"Where do you live?"

"342, Park Ave, apartment 5."

"Alone, or with your family?"

"Alone. Well, I've got a guinea pig, Spot. But other than that, alone."

"And how did you sustain this injury again?"

"I was running to my class because I was about to be late and I tripped."

"Two plus two?"

"Four."

"Six times three?"

"…Eighteen."

"Nine times seven?"

Craig paused, trying to do the math in his head, but he just kept thinking of the number ninety-seven. He counted on his fingers, then said, "Sixty three."

"Touch your finger to your nose."

Craig did so slowly, nearly missing it.

"Stand and walk the grout in the tile."

Craig stood, and tried to walk straight, but the more he focused on the line in the grout, the dizzier he got, and he ended up wobbling unevenly. When he sat back down, he felt nauseated. He informed the doctor of this, and she stepped back. Craig pulled the trash can in front of him, but soon the nausea passed. When he informed the doctor of this, she turned toward the desk.

"Catch this," she said, wadding up a piece of paper and tossing it at him. Craig tried to catch, but he missed.

She came back over and pinched his arm. He winced immediately. She led him to the receptionist's desk, sat him on it, and tested his reflexes, which seemed normal. She led him back to the chair he was sitting in before, and said, "Alright. So, as far as I can tell, you have a mild concussion."

Craig, who felt less dizzy now that he was sitting down, said, "Okay. What should I do?"

The doctor replied, "Well, first, I think it would be in your best interest to get an MRI, if you can. They can tell you the extent of the damage much better than I ever could, so if you're able, please do that. Second, I don't want you to be driving or operating machinery. Third, I'm not going to assume you've never drank alcohol or done drugs, but I am going to ask that if you do, you don't do it for at least a week. Fourth, if possible, spend a couple days with your family or a friend so they can keep an eye on you while you're sleeping. And last, I know this is an odd request, but I want you to avoid doing too much school work, and I want you to take off of work for a week. Do you work, Craig?" When Craig nodded, she continued, "Okay. Well, I want you to take off for a week. Even if you don't have a concussion, you still need time for whatever's causing your dizziness and lack of coordination to heal." She walked to the receptionist's desk again and grabbed a piece of paper with a letter head. She scribbled on it quickly, then signed and dated it and gave it to Craig.

"This is a note for your employer," she explained. "You're off work until Wednesday next week. I explained that you have a broken nose and a moderate concussion. Not that they'll need a note for proof," she said with a small smile. "Those rings around your eyes will be proof enough."

Craig groaned. "Will they be there for long?"

The doctor shrugged. "That depends on you. How fast you heal, how much rest you get. Keep applying an ice pack every once in a while to keep the swelling down. In any case, they should heal in about ten days, more or less."

Craig groaned again, thinking about what he would tell Tweek on Saturday. His head felt heavy again, so he rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

The doctor laughed. "It'll be alright Craig. If worse comes to worst, tell people you ran into a door. They usually believe that."

Craig gave a small smile and choked out a laugh. "Thank you, doctor."

"No problem, but don't be thanking me just yet. I still have to set your nose."

Craig frowned, then touched his nose again gently. It was still sore, and it still nearly blinded him when he pressed the bridge with any amount of pressure. But then he remembered that it hurt his right hand to press the bridge of his nose, too, and he looked at it. It was black and blue, and he might have been seeing things, but his one finger looked a little bent as well.

"What happened to your hand, Craig?"

Craig looked up at the doctor to see her eyeing him curiously and, Craig wasn't sure, but he thought she looked worried, too.

"I forgot, I shut it in my car door this morning," he explained. "I left my keys in the ignition, and the door was locked, so I put my hand in the way, and it slammed on my fingers."

"You forgot?" She asked.

"Well, it's not that I forgot," Craig explained quickly, wondering if she thought he had amnesia, wondering if amnesia were a symptom of concussions. "It's more like, the pain in my face was way worse than the pain in my hand."

She looked at him, scrutinizing, but when she saw that he was being completely honest, she nodded, and held out her hand. "Let me see it," she ordered. Craig extended his hand, and she took it, examining it closely. She bent each finger, but he flinched when she tried to bend his middle and ring fingers. She signed. "You are a mess of broken bones today," she told him. "Are you always this clumsy?"

"Never," Craig said. "Just having a rough morning, I suppose."

"Apparently," she muttered. "Alright. Well, I can give you an ice pack for your hand, if you'd like, and the best I can do for your fingers is give you a brace for them, but now you'll definitely need to go to the hospital. I can't tell for sure if your fingers are broken or just bruised or whatever is wrong with them. You'll need an X-ray for that."

She went to the supply cupboard herself this time, and grabbed two finger braces. She came back and told Craig to hold his fingers as stiff as he could. She put the braces on, and secured them with medical tape. She looked at the rest of his hand, and said, "That's going to take a while to heal. You've done quite a number on yourself this morning, Craig. Do be careful not to do yourself any more harm, alright?"

Craig nodded, then stood. "Thank you, doctor. I should probably go talk to my English teacher now." He looked at his watch, realizing as he did so that he already felt less dizzy. It was already eleven fifteen; his world civ class was already a quarter of the way over. He sighed. "Great. And I've missed world civ, too." He made toward the door, but the doctor grabbed his backpack by the handle.

"Ah, ah, ah. Where do you think you're going? You've got a few papers to sign, Craig, and we still haven't set your nose."

Craig walked out of the medical office about half an hour later, no longer dizzy, his eyes finally having stopped watering. Resetting his nose hurt a lot more than he had anticipated, and he was ashamed to admit that he'd cried. The doctor let him sit in the chair until some of the pain wore off, and he did so, rubbing at his eyes and wiping his nose with tissues from the pack that the lady earlier gave him. The doctor put a couple nasal strips on his nose (she explained that it might help to soften some of the blood that dried in his nasal passages), and set him on his way with another request that he get an MRI, an order that he get his hand X-rayed, and a reminder that he should have company for the next few days and that he shouldn't drive.

After he left the medical office, he realized that he had missed all but five minutes of world civ, so he decided to head to his English teacher's office and explain his absence. His teacher understood, and was quick to forgive, given that proof was very evident that Craig wasn't lying. Craig spent nearly another hour in the office; they had done peer reviews in class, and the teacher offered to review his paper. Craig appreciated it very much; the teacher gave him excellent feedback, and he was actually excited to edit it later. After he was done reviewing, they got onto the topic of a book they both liked, and talked about books for a while. Eventually, the time came that the teacher had another class, so they parted ways.

After he left the office, Craig remembered that he was supposed to meet Clyde for lunch, and looked at his phone. He had three text messages. The first one was from Clyde. It said, "hey fag you meeting me for lunch or what." The next was also from Clyde. "craig where are you." The last was from Token. It read, "Hey Craig, what's going on? Is everything okay?"

He responded to Clyde's message first with a quick, "Meet you at our table." Then he messaged Token, saying, "I was detained. I'll explain later."

Suddenly aware that he was starving, Craig walked slowly to the cafeteria.

He grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of soda from the vendor before looking for Clyde and Token, who he found sitting in their usual spot. He walked over, said a quick "hey guys," set his things down, and just as he was about to start eating, Token looked up at him.

"Dude, what happened to your face?" Token asked in shock. Clyde looked up as well, and his jaw dropped. "And your hand?"

"I was late this morning, and couldn't find anywhere to park, so I was running to class, and I tripped and broke my nose," Craig explained, taking a bite of his sandwich. "And I shut the door on my hand and broke my fingers." He was surprised to find that it hurt to chew, and he ran his tongue over his teeth. They were all in place, and none were chipped or cracked. He assumed it was just his nose, and ignored it.

"Wow," Clyde rolled his eyes. "What a badass."

Craig flipped Clyde off with his unbroken middle finger and continued to eat his sandwich. "I've also got a concussion, which means no driving, no drinking, and best of all, no working. Plus, I have to spend the next few days at home with my parents."

Clyde groaned now. "Seriously? You lucky fuck, I'm so jealous. I've got an eight hour shift when I get out of here. I considered calling in sick, and I would have, but I need the money."

Token remained silent, eating his lunch awkwardly. Token didn't have a job; he didn't need one. He was guaranteed a spot in his dad's company as soon as he graduated from school. He was attending Park County for an associate's degree in business, then he would transfer to a major university somewhere far away and double major in economics and business management. Craig was extremely jealous of Token; not for his wealth, but for the luxury of being assured freedom from South Park. He would give anything to have that same assurance—anything in the entire world.

Still, of his two best friends, he always felt that Token understood him better than Clyde did. Token was very down to earth, very level-headed, largely unemotional except when it mattered. Clyde, on the other hand, had a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve; anything he was feeling at any given moment was a matter of great importance. Clyde was much more prone to letting his temper get the best of him, and he took things personally almost all the time. Because he had grown up from a good-looking boy to a good-looking adult, he was a bit arrogant, though Craig could understand why. Clyde WAS good-looking, and he was athletic, and girls liked him a lot. Most shockingly, Clyde was smart, and when Craig first figured that out, he was skeptical until he got a look at Clyde's report card. Clyde was kind of a dick, though, and he didn't really understand sarcasm all the time. At least not the way Token did. As Craig was an incredibly sarcastic person, he felt like he and Token understood each other in a way that Clyde couldn't.

"I know, dude. I'm _so_ happy," Craig said through a mouthful of sandwich. "Except, you know, that my nose and fingers are broken, my eyes are black and it hurts to move my face at all. And the fact that I have to stay with my parents for a few days."

Clyde shrugged. "I don't know what the big deal is; I still live at home and I love it. The only reason I would move out is so that I don't run the risk of my parents walking in on me with chicks. Not that you have that problem, you fag." He kicked Craig's shin under the table.

Craig rarely felt the need to defend himself to Clyde (Clyde would be his friend no matter what was said or done), but the matter of his sex life was one of the few topics that he felt duty-bound to defend. He wasn't sure why; he'd had sex before, with a couple girls he'd dated. He had enjoyed it for what it was worth. But he didn't feel the need for it if he wasn't dating anybody. Not like Clyde; Clyde seemed to feel that every moment he wasn't chasing tail was a moment wasted, and to Craig's chagrin, so did Token, and Kevin, and nearly every guy he was friendly with. "Says the man so dependent on sex that he would hit on a guy."

"Hey!" Clyde shouted, looking around to make sure nobody had heard. "You swore you would never bring that up! How was I supposed to know it was a guy? He was a very convincing lady."

"Then stop attacking me about my sex life. I'm content with where I am in my life. I don't know why you aren't," Craig reasoned calmly, continuing to eat his sandwich.

"It's just… you're not NORMAL, Craig. You're a nineteen year old guy, you're supposed to want to chase women and have sex all the time. There's got to be something wrong with your wiring. Hey! Maybe your concussion's knocked some sense into you. Look over there," Clyde said, pointing over Craig's shoulder. Craig turned around to look.

Clyde was pointing at a table full of girls. Most of them he didn't know, but two of them were very familiar faces; Wendy and Bebe were surrounded by other girls, and they were all talking about lord-knows-what and who-even-cared.

"What about them?" Craig asked.

"Now imagine them naked," Clyde ordered.

Turning around to give Clyde a look, Clyde returned it with a look that clearly said, "Do it or I will punch you in the balls." Rolling his eyes, Craig turned back around and looked at the girls. He tried to imagine them naked, but it wasn't working; they adamantly refused to remove their clothing in his mind.

"Well?" Clyde pressed.

Craig turned back around to face Clyde and Token. Clyde looked like it was a matter of urgency, and even Token looked a little curious. Craig shrugged. "I couldn't picture it. Why would they be naked in the middle of the cafeteria? That doesn't make sense."

Token returned to his food and said nothing, but Clyde looked crestfallen. "I see. Your concussion didn't help. You're still unnatural. A freak. Bound to roam the earth forever unlike the rest of us sex-crazed human beings, friendless, alone, an outcast."

Craig rolled his eyes, flipped Clyde off again, and returned to his food. As was typical of Clyde, the subject immediately changed from Craig's sex life to his own.

"So, I was in Spanish today when Gwen Collins texted me. She was like…."

It was about that time that Craig tuned out of the conversation. If he didn't like discussing his own sex life, he definitely didn't like hearing about Clyde's. Secretly, though he would never admit it, he was always curious why he wasn't as sex-crazed as his friends said he should be. He didn't mind it; it seemed like it made his life a lot less complicated. He tried not to think about it too much. Craig liked the idea that he was normal, and the small matter of his lack of a sex drive was enough to throw that theory away. So he ignored his friend's teasing and acted like it wasn't a big deal.

"Urgh," he groaned, interrupting Clyde mid-story, remembering that there was now something he had to do.

"What's up, Craig?" Token asked, ignoring Clyde. Clyde looked slightly put-out, but stopped talking to listen.

"I'll be right back, I've got to go make a phone call," Craig said, standing up and digging into his pocket.

"Calling your secret lover?" Clyde teased.

"If by 'secret lover,' you mean my mother, then yes, I'm going to go call my secret lover," Craig replied flatly, leaving his things with his friends and walking to the door of the cafeteria. He pulled out his phone while he was walking and pressed the 3 key, then hit send. He kept his family on speed dial, just in case, though he would have to kill himself if Clyde ever found out.

After a couple rings, his mother answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mom. It's Craig."

"Hi, sweetie. What's up?" She asked, her voice full of familiar concern.

"Would it be possible for me to stay at your house for a couple days?" Craig asked hesitantly. He knew he was always welcome at his parents' house; they'd told him that he may live on his own but their house was still his home. He just didn't want his mom to ask why. She would have a heart attack when she found out; when he moved out, she had become freakishly paranoid about his health, constantly demanding updates on what he was eating and how much he slept.

"Of course, Craig, you know you're always welcome home. But if you don't mind my asking, how come?"

Craig took a deep breath and said, "So, I was late this morning, and all sorts of bad things happened, and when I got to school I was going to be late for class, so I started running but I tripped and fell on my face and broke my nose and I have a concussion now. The school doctor says I should stay with family or a friend for a couple days, but you and I both know I'd rather come home than stay with Clyde or Token." Token's house wouldn't be so bad, but he always felt like he was imposing when he went to Token's house, and he would rather die in his sleep because of his concussion than spend a couple days at Clyde's house. Clyde's parents were cool, but Clyde would not only bother him the entire time, but would also likely bring girls back to his house even though he'd be sharing the room with him.

"Oh. Are you okay?" His mom asked. Craig could hear the level of concern reach a fever pitch.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm okay," he reassured quickly. "I feel fine. The doctor just said it would be a good idea to stay with somebody, that way they can keep an eye on me. She also said I should probably get an MRI done, and that I can't drive, so if it's alright, would you come get me when you get out of work?" Craig's mom didn't work too far from campus, but it did mean he'd be stuck at school for a couple hours after his last class.

"Sure thing, Craig. But, how are you going to get your car home?"

Craig shrugged, then realized she couldn't see it. "I dunno. I'll probably have Token or Clyde drop it off at my apartment."

"Alright, sweetie. I'll call you when I'm on my way," she said, and Craig could tell that she wasn't as worried.

Craig let out a sigh of relief. "Alright. Thanks, Mom. See you in a few hours." Then he hit the 'end' button, and dialed another number.

Craig's boss, though unhappy to hear that he was injured, was very understanding of the fact that he would be out for a week. He didn't even ask for the note, though when Craig mentioned it, he said that he should probably have it for the sake of records. Craig made a mental note to ask his mom if they could run by before they stopped at Craig's house, and Craig returned to the table right in the middle of a heated debate between Token and Clyde.

"No, dude, Puerto Rican chicks are way hotter than Japanese chicks," Clyde argued.

Craig sighed, and wondered if Clyde was right. Not about the Puerto Rican girls, he could care less about that. But maybe he was right about Craig's wiring being screwed up. But then, if it were, why should he care? It wasn't bothering him that he wasn't interested in sex; it seemed to bother Clyde more than it bothered him.

But it had to bother him a little, or else he wouldn't be thinking about it, right?

Craig looked at his watch, and stood. "Clyde, come on, it's time for biology," he said, throwing the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

Clyde groaned. "Oh great. Favorite class ever, you guys." Then he sighed dramatically, and said, "See you later, Token."

Token returned the farewell, and pulled out his laptop and a textbook. Craig and Clyde walked to the exit of the cafeteria.

_It doesn't bother me_, Craig thought, he and Clyde walking in an unusual silence. _It doesn't._ _I'm normal in every other way, so in this one regard, I'm allowed to be a bit abnormal, right?_

"So, what do you think, Craig? Puerto Rican or Japanese chicks?" Clyde asked, breaking Craig's chain of thought.

Craig rolled his eyes and ignored him, instead wondering if there would ever come a point in his life when that question would matter to him, even a little.


End file.
